


a very merry unbirthday

by pocky_slash



Series: grace coming out of the void [3]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Baking, Celebrations, Domestic Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Unexpected Visitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 07:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17658533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: If it wasn't for Indrid showing up out of the blue, Barclay may have forgotten the date entirely. But if they're going to celebrate, they really should have a cake.(Barclay bakes, Indrid has poor impulse control, and they debate proper French pronunciation.)





	a very merry unbirthday

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends and strangers!
> 
> This is technically a sequel to [the season of scars and of wounds in the heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374703), but there's actually another story between that one and this one that I haven't finished yet, where Barclay and Indrid set the parameters of their new attempt at a relationship. It's not at all critical to read to understand this, just know that they did, indeed, set those parameters and they are, in fact, attempting to redo their relationship in a healthier way.
> 
> I normally don't post things without having them beta read, but today I'm short on time and resources, so please bear with me. There shouldn't be any egregious errors.
> 
> Thanks, guys!

It's late when Barclay finally finishes putting together next week's grocery order. The lobby is entirely empty as he walks through it on the way to his room, so he's the only one around to answer the phone when it starts ringing.

"Amnesty Lodge," he says.

"I'm about half an hour outside Morgantown," Indrid says over the fuzzy connection of a cellphone in the middle of nowhere.

"Coming or going?" Barclay asks, leaning against the wall next to the phone. Morgantown is a little under three hours away. It's nearly midnight.

"Coming," Indrid says. 

That'll definitely make it at least three am when he arrives, if not later.

"You should pull off and get a few hours sleep," Barclay says. "We'll still be here in the morning." He pauses then. "Will we still be here in the morning?"

"Yes, yes," Indrid says absently. "And I slept late this morning, I can handle a few extra hours on the road. I'd rather get it done with and be there, if it's all the same to you."

Barclay translates that in his mind to, _I miss you and I don't want to stop until I'm with you again._ He can't be positive that's an accurate translation, but it makes him close his eyes and smile all the same.

"Is this trip for business or pleasure?" he asks. It's been almost a month since Indrid last dropped into the Lodge, though they've been better about calling during his absences.

"Pleasure," Indrid says. "Though it's likely I'll be cornered for business at least once." There's a quiet pause and then Indrid adds, "It's February 8th. Or, it will be, soon."

And that right there is a hit to Barclay's solar plexus. He needs to pause to breathe and breathe and breathe again. It's been nearly thirty years.

"I can't believe you remembered," he murmurs.

"I could never forget," Indrid admits. "Anyway, it seems appropriate that I drop in, so I'm on my way. Don't wait up, though--I know you need to be up early. I just didn't want you to be surprised if you didn't wake up alone."

It might be disturbing, how quickly Barclay has let himself become accustomed to this--to talking to Indrid regularly, to not being surprised by the idea of Indrid dropping in unannounced. He should be disturbed, maybe, but Barclay doesn't like to think of it that way. He's too old to weigh the pros and cons of what he _should_ think and feel and do versus what he wants to think and feel and do.

He wants to have Indrid around, so he lets himself be happy at this surprise visit.

"We have a little bit until you lose signal," Barclay says. "I'll help keep you awake."

"You should sleep," Indrid insists, but he doesn't hang up. 

"How about I tell you about my week instead?" Barclay asks. Indrid doesn't object, so he sits down on the floor next to the phone and gets comfortable. "So, the first thing you need to know is that Jake decided it would be a good idea to try and hide a cat in his room...."

* * *

Eventually, Indrid gets too far into the National Radio Quiet Zone to keep a cell signal. Barclay knows he should go to sleep--Indrid has a key to both the lodge and his room--but instead he finds himself puttering around, glancing at the clock every few minutes. He puts an extra blanket on his bed and fires up the space heater that Indrid left behind on his last stay. He strips off his shirt, because he's already far too hot and there's not even a second body in his room yet. He straightens the few items out of place, pulls out Indrid's favorite of his sweaters and leaves it on his desk chair. He needs to be up at five to get breakfast on the table by six and he's going to _intensely regret this_ in only a few hours, but he can't help it. He's full of too much nervous energy to sleep, anyway.

Finally, when he estimates that Indrid should be arriving in the next ten or so minutes, he heads out to wait in the lobby. He nearly bumps into Agent Stern in the hallway.

"Sorry about that!" Stern chirps, narrowly ducking away from Barclay as they almost collide at a corner. "I didn't realize anyone was up, still."

Barclay is glad he's already a little sweaty from lingering in his too-hot bedroom. It disguises how uncomfortable he still gets when confronted with Stern one-on-one.

"Uh, I've got a guest coming in," he says. "Late. Obviously, uh, because it is. Late, I mean." He laughs nervously. "Anyway!"

"I won't keep you, then," Stern says, with a genial smile. "See you for breakfast!"

"Yes, I will definitely see you there!" Barclay says in a way that somehow sounds fake and suspicious despite the fact that he's telling the absolute truth. He flees down the hall before Stern can say anything else and collapses onto one of the sofas in an frazzled heap. When the hell is that guy going to leave?

He focuses on calming himself down--an anxiety spiral isn't going to do anyone any favors. Once Indrid gets here he does actually have to try and get some sleep if he wants to be awake to make breakfast in the morning. He counts his breaths and tries one of Dani's weird meditation exercises and finally, _finally_ , he hears the rumble of the Winnebago coming down the road. 

In the quiet of the night, he can hear Indrid's progress as he parks the RV, opens and shuts the driver's side door, and crunches across the icy remains of the weekend's snowfall on top of the loose gravel of the front path. There's a key in the door, and Barclay gets to his feet just as it opens. There's Indrid in the doorway, rumpled and exhausted, having foregone his glasses in favor of the disguise bracelet tied around his wrist. Barclay's heart squeezes in his chest.

"Hi," he says to Indrid.

Indrid responds by freezing for a moment, and then leaping into Barclay's arms.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. He leaps at Barclay, full stop. It's only because Barclay scrambles to catch him that he ends up in Barclay's arms, and then both of them fall back onto the sofa and he's in Barclay's lap, instead.

"Whoa--" Barclay starts to say, but then there is too much kissing going on to say much of anything at all.

Not that there is a single cognizant thought in his mind _to_ say.

Indrid's back is warm underneath all of his layers, and he arches into the hand that Barclay smooths up his spine and spreads across his back. He's impatient and restless like he is so often when they come together like this, his hands in Barclay's hair and then on his shoulders, his back, his biceps, pushing Barclay back against the sofa and pressing as close as he can manage. His knees are tucked on either side of Barclay's hips, and they probably shouldn't fuck on the sofa in the lounge, even if it's nearly three am and everyone else is almost definitely asleep in their rooms.

"I missed you," Indrid murmurs, breathless, pulling away just enough to press their foreheads together.

"I missed you too," Barclay manages to reply. "So much. But we should--" Indrid's fingernails dig into his bare shoulders and he forgets entirely what he was going to say in favor of pulling Indrid down into another heated kiss.

They are definitely going to fuck on the sofa in the lounge, and when Dani inevitably finds out, she's going to make fun of him _forever_.

"Oh!"

Or, they're not going to fuck on the sofa in the lounge and Barclay is, instead, going to die of mortification as Agent Stern, of all the fucking people in the lodge, interrupts them. 

"Oh! I'm sorry! I'll just--"

Indrid is dazed when he pulls away from Barclay to blink at the mouth of the hallway, where Stern is standing in his robe and slippers, staring at them in shock. Barclay lets go of Indrid's hair to cover his face with his hands.

"I'll just...go back to bed...I should have--um. Sorry!"

Barclay can hear Stern's hasty retreat. He sighs and finally drops his hands. Indrid doesn't even look embarrassed.

"You couldn't have warned me about that?" he asks.

"I was a little too distracted to see it coming," Indrid says. He smiles widely, but Barclay rolls his eyes.

"We're going to finish this in my room, before anyone else I have to live with walks in on a lifetime's worth of teasing material," he says.

"No one will," Indrid says, and wraps his arms around Barclay's neck again.

"Yeah, I'm not falling for that one," Barclay says. He pushes himself to his feet, scooping Indrid up in the process, and heads back towards his room before he gets too distracted. Indrid buries his face in the crook of Barclay's neck, delighted. Barclay can feel his smile against his skin, and can't help a smile of his own as he slips inside his room and kicks the door shut behind them.

* * *

("Two hours of sleep," Barclay grumbles sometime later, his face pressed into Indrid's shoulder, his body loose and warm. "I might as well stay up until breakfast."

"I'm sorry," Indrid lies. "I told you to go to sleep after I lost phone signal."

"But you knew I wouldn't."

"Well, that's hardly my fault. Go to sleep, Barclay.")

* * *

Getting up is torture, soothed slightly by Indrid getting up with him.

"I'm not technically waking up, as I haven't slept yet," Indrid tells him as they dress in the dark quiet of the early morning, lit by the glow of the space heater.

"You should," Barclay says, but he only half means it. He likes this: dressing together, washing together, walking together through the cold halls to the sleeping kitchen.

"You do this every morning." It's not a question, more of a disbelieving marvel. Indrid shakes his head as he squints out the windows at the still-dark landscape. 

"You get used to it," Barclay says. "Do you want coffee? We have that disgusting creamer that you like." A little known embarrassing fact is that they've always had Indrid's too-sweet vanilla-cinnamon creamer as long as Barclay's been the one ordering groceries. At first, it was out of some foolish fantasy that Indrid might track him down, but some of the regulars started liking it and now it's just a staple of the lodge coffee station. He's pretty sure he's seen Jake make a drink that's two-thirds creamer with just a touch of coffee on top.

"I'll have a little," Indrid says. He follows Barclay to the coffee pot--on a timer, thank god--and molds himself against his back as he pours two cups of coffee and prepares them as necessary. When Barclay turns to hand him his coffee, Indrid pulls back only long enough to take the mug and then resettle himself against Barclay's chest. Barclay cups his free hand around the nape of Indrid's neck and rubs gently at the short hairs there.

"I'm glad you're here," he murmurs.

"I'm glad I'm here too," Indrid says.

In the lobby, the clock on the wall slowly ticks through the first minutes of the day. In the kitchen, Barclay and Indrid drink their coffee in comfortable silence.

* * *

Through some miracle of pacing and timing, Barclay manages to stay awake through all of breakfast and doesn't fuck up a single order. He thanks a series of gods that a) he doesn't believe in and b) don't even exist on this world, and then starts a half-assed clean up that he'll probably regret later when he has to start dinner service. 

(He has one awkward conversation with Agent Stern halfway through breakfast.

"I'm sorry again about last night," Stern says without meeting his eyes, his ears glowing red against his pale skin. "I knew you were expecting a guest--I should have put two and two together."

"I'm sorry that my boyfriend jumped me in the lobby," Barclay says. "He's an asshole with no manners."

Aubrey snickers from across the room, and Barclay retreats before the conversation can go any further.)

He joins Indrid in his bedroom once he's more-or-less cleaned the kitchen to his satisfaction. The room is already sweltering, and Indrid is under a blanket. Barclay crawls around to the side not facing the space heater and wraps himself around Indrid's sleeping form.

"Mm." Indrid's sleepy face peers up at him from under the blanket. "Do you--" He yawns, wide, and Barclay can't hide his smile. Or his own yawn, actually. "Do you want to do something? We should do something, if you want."

"Right now, I just want to take a nap," Barclay says softly.

"Good," Indrid replies. He rolls into Barclay's embrace and closes his eyes again.

Barclay takes a moment to revel in this, in the strange melding of muscle memory with the thrill of something new. His arms know how to hold Indrid still, but he feels like an entirely different person than the man who used to go to bed with Indrid in his arms every night. It's strange to think that he could go so long not really knowing who he was, not really understanding himself. His first few decades on Earth blur together in a wash of anger and anxiety and ennui. He won't pretend there weren't good things, highlights, memories that he'll always treasure, but he's had longer to confront his past and future, now. He's learned what he's like when he's on his own. He knows how to survive and thrive without relying on anyone else. 

He likes to think that he's stronger and more vulnerable both. He likes to think that he's a better, more caring person. He likes to think that he's kind, now, instead of just nice. 

He likes himself. And he's both relieved and pleased that Indrid seems to like him too.

A year ago, he never would have imagined he could have nearly everything he wanted--this home, this family, this purpose, and also this man who's rarely left his mind during their decades apart. This morning, they had sex in the warm nest of blankets in the room that Barclay calls his own, they slept peacefully in the same space, they shared a cup of coffee, they spent long quiet moments just enjoying each other's company. This morning, Barclay has his job that he loves and his calling that he loves and his strange little family that he loves and also Indrid, dozing against him in the muggy heat of the bedroom.

It's not a bad way to start his fifty-second year on Earth.

* * *

The afternoon is cold and clear, with the sun shining brightly despite the bitter winds. It's a strangely quiet day at the Lodge. Mama is out on business, Jake and a few of the others are up on the mountain, Dani and Aubrey are tucked away somewhere, and the lobby is empty and quiet. There are a few people in the hot springs, and while Barclay has had more than one fantasy about pulling Indrid along to take a dip out back, he'd rather wait until they can be closer to alone. 

For now, he's content to spend the afternoon indoors. He's showered and changed and they're out of his stuffy bedroom. It means that Indrid is wearing about fifteen layers of clothing, but at least half of them are Barclay's and he can't pretend he doesn't get a little thrill from that.

"What did we used to do to celebrate?" Indrid muses, sprawled across the sofa in such a way that he's somehow taking up all three cushions with his slight frame. Barclay is sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, paging through the local events in the newspaper.

"Different things," Barclay says with a half-hearted shrug. He wants to say something cloyingly sentimental, like, _just having you with me is celebration enough_ , but he holds his tongue. Indrid lolls his head to the side and nudges his glasses up to give Barclay a smile that hovers between a smirk and something sweeter, indicating that at least a few of the potential future Barclays did not manage to hold their tongues after all. "And anyway, shouldn't I be asking you what we _will_ do to celebrate?"

"I thought we decided we weren't going to lean on precognition to drive our relationship this time around," Indrid says. "Besides, you know that's not how it works."

"I think we decided we wouldn't lean on precognition to _deal with_ our relationship," Barclay says. "This is more about figuring out how to spend our time. It's different."

"If you say so," Indrid says. He yawns and stretches. "There are many possibilities at present." He pauses for a moment and then says, too casually, "Many of them include cake."

Barclay tips his head back to peer up at Indrid. "You and your sweet tooth."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Indrid says. "I'm just reporting on what I see."

"Uh-huh," Barclay says. He folds the newspaper up neatly and returns it to the communal pile on the coffee table. "Well, then." He gets to his feet and offers Indrid his hand. "Let's make a cake."

* * *

Barclay enjoys baking, but it's a very different skill than cooking. He's a decent baker--he makes most of the desserts at the lodge, though they do have a nice arrangement with the bakery in town to get some fancier desserts on their busier nights and on request for events. He's not as polished with baking as he is with cooking; his treats tend to taste fine but look a little sad. He's never much minded before, and usually he can talk Dani or someone into helping decorate if he needs something to look better than he can manage on his own.

Today, he's even less worried about that part than he normally is. This isn't for guests or even for his friends. This is something just for him and Indrid, and he knows that Indrid won't judge him.

He takes out mixing bowls and measuring cups, pulls out a slab of butter and his digital scale. He's old fashioned for the most part. He knows that baking by weight is supposed to be more professional, but he learned to bake by volume and there's something soothing about filling measuring cups and leveling them off neatly before moving on to the next step.

He spreads everything out in front of him. Indrid pulls himself up to sit on the counter nearby, watching with interest.

"Do you want to help?" Barclay asks. He goes back to the fridge to pull out eggs.

"I'm sure it would end in tragedy," Indrid says. With Indrid, it's hard to tell how much is hyperbole and how much is a vision of the future. For today, Barclay takes him at his word and hands him the eggs.

"Then you can hold onto these until I need them. Be careful; don't break them, just warm them up a little."

"I can manage that, I think," Indrid says, and leans against the counter to watch Barclay work.

Barclay weighs the butter, the one exception to his volume rule, glancing occasionally over his shoulder to see Indrid's attention still squarely on his progress. It should feel familiar, but it occurs to him that this is one of the first times they've shared this experience.

"We never got to do this before," he says, turning his head slightly. "All those years. Huh."

When they were traveling together, Barclay cooked for work, not for the enjoyment of it. He cooked at diners and rest stops and wherever he was working at the time. He brought home their meals or Indrid came by and they ate together there. He rarely cooked for them at home and the tiny kitchen in the RV wasn't good enough to do anything fancy anyway. He didn't love cooking, yet, and it never occurred to him that it was something they could do together.

It feels nice to share this. It feels nice to show off a little.

He's making a fairly simple vanilla cake with chocolate cinnamon buttercream. He can make this in his sleep, and his hands move automatically to add the butter and sugar to the stand mixer, then whisk together the dry ingredients separately while they're creaming. He takes the eggs from Indrid one at a time and adds them to the butter and sugar. Vanilla goes into the mixer and then the dry ingredients and then the buttermilk. He does it all without thinking, humming to himself as he goes.

"Is it really that easy to make a cake?" Indrid asks.

"It is," Barclay confirms. "I don't know that you'd have room to do it in the Winnebago, though. It would also require owning multiple bowls and staple ingredients like flour and sugar."

"I have sugar," Indrid says, defensive. Barclay snorts.

"Of course you do." He turns the mixer off and takes the bowl off of it to do the last little bit of stirring by hand with a silicone spatula. "Come here, I'll teach you how to flour cake pans."

"That sounds fake, but okay," Indrid says. He hops off the counter and Barclay sets the batter aside, pulling out two round cake pans from a cabinet. He hands one to Indrid, who looks down at it dubiously.

"We're going to rub butter around the inside of the pan and then coat it with flour," Barclay says. Indrid's wearing his glasses, but Barclay can see one eyebrow rise skeptically above one large, red lens. "It's a real thing, I promise. Watch me."

He makes himself go slowly, sure to get into all the crevices. Indrid watches, still skeptical, as Barclay tosses a pinch or two of flour into the pan and then shakes it around until the whole surface is coated.

"Your turn," Barclay says.

It's not so much that Indrid is a disaster as it is that he's too cautious. His butter coat is thin and spotty, applied haltingly to the pan, like he's afraid of adding too much. Barclay sighs, but it's more amused then anything else, and he moves to stand behind Indrid, covering his hands with his own.

"Don't be afraid of slathering it on there," he murmurs, and guides him through the steps. Indrid's fingers are freezing and press eagerly back into his own as they finish up with the butter and then shake flour around the inside of the pan. When they finish and Barclay lets go, Indrid doesn't step away.

"See?" Barclay says. "Easy."

"Mm," Indrid says. "I suppose. I still think I'd rather come back here than try to learn to bake a cake on my own."

"Well," Barclay says seriously, "You'll need instruction and practice before you try it yourself."

"I certainly will," Indrid replies, just as serious, and then turns his head to kiss Barclay gently in the warm afternoon sunlight.

* * *

Barclay makes the buttercream frosting while the cakes are in the oven and he makes Indrid do the dishes in the meantime. He doesn't complain, which is a wild change from their days traveling together, but he also doesn't do nearly as good a job as Barclay would prefer. He's fairly sure it's not on purpose--he remembers what the interior of Indrid's RV would look like if Barclay had to leave for a few days. Instead of complaining, he loads everything into the industrial dishwasher once the frosting is finished. He tries not to use it for his personal cooking, but it's a special day; he can make an exception.

He has to slap Indrid's hands away from the hot cake pans when he pulls them out of the oven and again a few minutes later when he flips the cakes out of the pans and onto the cooling rack.

"We can't frost them until they cool down," he says, and Indrid sighs dramatically and flops back against Barclay.

"Whatever will we do with ourselves?" he asks. He smirks and Barclay nudges his glasses out of the way to kiss him. The angle is upside down and strange and Barclay has to twist his neck uncomfortably for their lips to meet. It's not even a proper kiss--they're both smiling too much, even once Indrid twists around to face Barclay head on.

"This is very unhygienic," Barclay says between quick kisses.

"Then by all means, let's move this somewhere else," Indrid says. His arms go around Barclay's neck, and with his glasses pushed to the top of his head he looks less cool and more fond. He looks, simply put, supremely happy to be holding onto Barclay on this February afternoon.

"Hey," Barclay says softly. "You know that I love you."

If anything, that makes Indrid look even more fond. "Of course I do," he replies. "I love you too." He shifts his grip, sinking both his hands in Barclay's hair and pulling him down until their foreheads are resting together. "It's your day--what do you want?"

"You," Barclay says. He kisses Indrid's cheek.

"Then I'm yours," Indrid says, and lets Barclay pull him back to bed while the cakes cool.

* * *

There are a few more people in the lounge when they emerge again an hour or so later. Dani gives him a knowing look from where she's curled up in an armchair with Dr. Harris Bonkers.

"I told everyone to stay away from your cake," she says. Then, "Hi, Indrid."

"Dani," Indrid says with a nod. He's moved on from wearing random articles of Barclay's clothing to wearing the sweater that Barclay was wearing this morning, a fact that does not go unnoticed in Dani's once-over.

"Aubrey's out with Ned, something about getting a new car? Actually, she said something about a food truck, and Ned being Ned...well, who knows what that's going to really mean, you know?"

"I know," Indrid says. "Crepes by Monica."

Dani's forehead wrinkles as her nose scrunches up. Barclay, who's used to Indrid's nonsense, ignores the bulk of what he's said to zero in on, "Did you just say 'krepps'?"

"Yes?" Indrid says. "Crepes by Monica."

"Isn't that the food truck that used to hang out at the resort?" Dani asks.

"'Krepps'?" Barclay repeats. "Don't you mean 'krapes'?"

"'Krepps' is the proper French pronunciation," Indrid says. He sniffs, his nose turning up just a little. It's cute.

"Sure it is," Barclay says. 

"It is!" Indrid insists. "What would you know, anyway?"

"More about food and cooking than you, to be honest," Barclay says. Indrid crosses his arms. Dani giggles again. "Do you want cake or not?"

Indrid's sigh is long suffering, but he uncrosses his arms and follows Barclay into the kitchen.

The kitchen is just a quick stop, really. Barclay pulls down a cake round and smears some frosting on it. He quickly levels one of the cakes then the places it on top, then puts the round on a lazy susan that he hands to Indrid. He takes the other cake, the bowl of frosting, and a couple offset spatulas, then leads Indrid back out into the dining room. They set everything down on a table, and soon Barclay is slowly frosting the cake.

"You're good at this," Indrid remarks.

"I'm fine at it," Barclay says. "Not good. Not bad. Adequate."

"You're doing a better job than I would be."

"Indrid, you know I love you, but that's really not saying much."

Indrid hmphs, but when Barclay sneaks a glance at him, he's still smiling.

Barclay doesn't do anything special with the frosting. He doesn't pull out food coloring to add any detailing, he doesn't etch in any designs, he doesn't even really smooth the icing to a perfectly flat shine. He spreads it on until it's neat and even, and then he brings his tools and empty bowls back to the kitchen, leaving one frosting covered spatula for Indrid to lick clean. He returns with a large knife, two plates, and two forks.

"And that's how you make a cake," he says, gesturing at the finished product.

"You shouldn't have had to make your own cake," Indrid says, frowning suddenly. "I didn't question it because I saw that you did it, but in retrospect...."

"I like cooking," Barclay says. "Baking. It's soothing." 

Indrid tilts his head to the side, taking Barclay in silently.

"Do you still worry?" he asks quietly.

 _Do you still have anxiety attacks?_ he means.

Barclay nods with a wry smile. "Not like I used to. It's not as bad. But sometimes."

Indrid reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. "I don't know why I didn't think to ask that before this. I feel like a heel."

"You're not a heel," Barclay says. "It's better. It's been getting better little by little, since I ended up here. I'm fine; I'm old hat at it, now."

Indrid's never truly understood anxiety, or the way Barclay gets anxious, at any rate. He never understood why his insistence that everything would be fine didn't do more to ease Barclay's nerves and panic spirals. He tried, and Barclay could see how much he struggled with it, even then. Bless him, he never used it against Barclay, even at their worst, even in those last few years when everything was on the brink of self-destructing right up until the moment that Barclay walked out of the RV with no intention of ever coming back.

"I'm not worried today," Barclay says, with finality. "I'm happy today. I have you and I have cake. What else could I ask for?"

Indrid smiles at that and Barclay smiles back. It's disgustingly domestic, but he's allowed to be a little sentimental on today of all days.

He cuts Indrid a piece and cuts himself a slightly smaller piece, and they sit in silence, eating cake in each other's company. The cake is perfect--moist and soft, the vanilla an excellent vehicle for the chocolate cinnamon frosting. It's not warm enough to melt the frosting, but the cake retains just enough warmth to melt in Barclay's mouth.

It's a good recipe. It was a good choice for today. It's something he never would have had, never would have done for himself in Sylvain. It's 100% Earth, a reminder of everything he has. A reminder of everything he built for himself.

He takes another bite and hooks his ankle around Indrid's under the table. Indrid glances up from his own cake, already half gone, and smiles at Barclay like he's crazy about him. Barclay can relate.

He sees Dani glancing over at them and gestures for her to join them at their table. She spends a minute situating Dr. Harris Bonkers, and then crosses through the closed down dining room, pulling a chair over to their table.

"What's the occasion?" she asks as Barclay cuts her a slice. "Is it your anniversary?" She looks back and forth between the two of them.

"Something like that," Barclay says, sliding the newly cut plate of cake towards her. "It's...well, it's the anniversary of my exile. I first stepped foot on Earth fifty-two years ago today."

Dani freezes, her first forkful of cake halfway to her mouth. "Oh, Barclay. I'm so sorry."

"There's no need," he says, waving her off. "I'm glad."

She puts the forkful of cake into her mouth and manages to give him a dubious look around her grin of pleasure at the taste.

"No, I am," he insists. He glances at Indrid. "We started, um, marking the occasion, I guess, back when we first met. We'd only known each other a few months and I was moping in the lead up. You took me to the museum and the planetarium, right?"

Indrid nods. "And dinner. You were so miserable. I wanted to show you what Earth had to offer. I didn't necessarily mean it as a celebration but...things change, I suppose."

"And the first few years it was a little mournful, a little spiteful," Barclay admits to Dani. "It was marking my time away from something. But as time went on...." He reaches out and takes Indrid's free hand. "By the time I had been here five, six years, it started being more about marking my time as here on Earth rather than my time not in Sylvain. I'm grateful for being here. I'm proud of the life I've made. I'm happy in my life. Happier now than I've ever been, I think."

"Kind of like a birthday," Dani says softly. "Marking the day you started down the path to really be who you are."

"Something like that, yeah," Barclay agrees.

"Oh, I wish Aubrey was here," Dani says. "She could do some cool magic and--"

Indrid says the rest along with her. "--light some candles to turn this into a birthday cake." 

Dani blinks, and Indrid adds, "Give it a moment...and...."

There's a beat and then the door to the lodge opens. Aubrey comes in, stomping some lingering snow off of her boots and unfurling her layers. She glances around until she spots Dani, who motions for her to join them at the table.

"Go into the kitchen and grab some candles," Dani tells her before she reaches the table. "Uh...fourth drawer from the left when you're facing the sink.

"O...kay," Aubrey says, but she darts into the kitchen and returns with a blue box of plain white birthday candles which she hands to Dani as she sits down. "Hi guys. Hi Indrid. What's going on?"

Dani is already putting candles on what's left of the cake, arranging them in a pattern that forms a small 5 and 2. "It's Barclay's birthday. Can you light the candles?"

"I thought you said that Sylphs don't have birthdays here because of like...calendars and the length of sun rotation and things," Aubrey says, but she dutifully lights the candles and pulls a chair over to sit down next to Dani.

"It's not really my birthday," Barclay says. 

"Whatever," Aubrey says, shrugging. "Cake!"

Barclay opens his mouth to explain what, exactly, is going on, but then gives in and closes it, smiling. "Cake," he agrees, and picks up the knife to cut her a piece.

"Wait!" Dani says. "You need to make a wish and blow out the candles first!"

Barclay shrugs and blows out the candles, then slices a piece of cake and puts it on his now-empty plate for Aubrey. She thanks him profusely, and then starts chattering about Ned's new car, which is apparently an old food truck he's going to repurpose into a mobile base of operations for the Pine Guard.

As they talk, Indrid scoots closer until he can lean comfortably against Barclay's side. Their hands find each other again, fingers intertwining.

"What did you wish for?" Indrid asks quietly.

"Nothing," Barclay says. "I couldn't think of anything else I really wanted."

"Sentimental," Indrid scoffs, but he presses closer and smiles.

Barclay hums in response. He can't disagree.

Afternoon is fading into evening. The sun is setting in the sky through the big bay windows. Soon enough it will be time to start dinner, and maybe afterwards he and Indrid can settle in to watch a movie or read or take a drive through the crisp, clear West Virginia night.

No matter what happens for the rest of this year or the rest of this month or the rest of this week, today has been wonderful, and that's not nothing.

"What are you thinking about?" Indrid asks. "You're miles away."

"Nothing," Barclay says. "Just...it's been a good day."

And that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, folks! I'm on tumblr and twitter both at @fourteenacross ([Tumblr](http://fourteenacross.tumblr.com) | [Twitter](http://twitter.com/fourteenacross)) where I mostly talk about my Stardew Valley farms and whatever I'm watching on teevee.


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